🔗 Share this article

It unfolded during that morning appearing perfectly normal. I was traveling accompanied by my family to pick up our new dog. Life felt predictable – before everything changed.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I called my mum, hoping for her calm response explaining everything was fine. Silence. My parent didn't respond either. Then, my sibling picked up – his voice instantly communicated the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Unfolding Tragedy

I've seen countless individuals in media reports whose worlds were destroyed. Their expressions revealing they didn't understand what they'd lost. Suddenly it was us. The floodwaters of violence were overwhelming, with the wreckage hadn't settled.

My young one watched me from his screen. I moved to reach out in private. When we arrived our destination, I would witness the horrific murder of someone who cared for me – almost 80 years old – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her home.

I remember thinking: "None of our friends could live through this."

At some point, I saw footage revealing blazes consuming our residence. Despite this, later on, I denied the house was destroyed – before my siblings sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Getting to the station, I contacted the puppy provider. "Hostilities has erupted," I told them. "My family are probably dead. Our kibbutz fell to by militants."

The journey home consisted of searching for community members while also guarding my young one from the horrific images that were emerging across platforms.

The scenes from that day exceeded all comprehension. A 12-year-old neighbor seized by several attackers. Someone who taught me transported to the territory in a vehicle.

Friends sent social media clips that seemed impossible. My mother's elderly companion similarly captured to Gaza. A woman I knew and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by attackers, the fear apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed to take forever for the military to come the area. Then commenced the terrible uncertainty for information. As time passed, one photograph emerged depicting escapees. My family were not among them.

Over many days, as community members worked with authorities document losses, we combed digital spaces for signs of those missing. We saw torture and mutilation. We didn't discover recordings showing my parent – no clue regarding his experience.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality became clearer. My elderly parents – as well as dozens more – were taken hostage from the community. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. During the violence, a quarter of the residents were murdered or abducted.

Seventeen days later, my mum left imprisonment. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of her captor. "Shalom," she uttered. That gesture – a simple human connection amid unspeakable violence – was broadcast globally.

More than sixteen months following, my parent's physical presence were recovered. He died only kilometers from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and their documentation continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the ongoing war, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the primary pain.

Both my parents were lifelong peace activists. My mother still is, as are most of my family. We recognize that hostility and vengeance cannot bring even momentary relief from this tragedy.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, rather than simpler. The young ones from my community continue imprisoned and the weight of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

Personally, I call focusing on the trauma "immersed in suffering". We typically discussing events to fight for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – and two years later, our work continues.

Not one word of this account serves as endorsement of violence. I have consistently opposed this conflict from the beginning. The residents of Gaza endured tragedy terribly.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the organization cannot be considered innocent activists. Having seen their actions on October 7th. They betrayed the population – creating pain for all due to their violent beliefs.

The Community Split

Sharing my story with people supporting the violence seems like dishonoring the lost. My local circle experiences growing prejudice, and our people back home has campaigned with the authorities throughout this period and been betrayed again and again.

From the border, the devastation of the territory is visible and visceral. It horrifies me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that numerous people seem willing to provide to militant groups causes hopelessness.